


castiel is to be loved with humanity

by localswampcrow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Castiel (Supernatural), Compassionate Dean, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Poetry, Post-Canon, Season 8/9, mention of sexual activity, the most miniscule amount of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 02:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30048708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localswampcrow/pseuds/localswampcrow
Summary: Castiel has and is learning how to be human. He is no angel, and shouldn't be treated like one. He is not a machine, he is an animal, a divine creature with a soul and feelings. He should be loved that way.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 20





	castiel is to be loved with humanity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youchangedmedean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youchangedmedean/gifts).



> This is inspired by a dream I had that I paired with ideas about what Castiel did/would do as a human. Some parts reflect season 8/9 of human Cas's unseen experiences and some are post-canon human Cas (because obviously). This is a version of Cas I have endless hugs and kisses for.
> 
> Thanks to [J](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/plantjender) for saying I should write this. I hope you like it.

Being older than time is not all that it is cracked up to be. He's seen enough death to make a reaper quiver, but he has also seen miraculous occurrences of life spring into thin air. Some things just happen, without logical reason or viable possibility. Like falling out of a pair of wings and into stolen sneakers plucked fresh from the box. 

Taking things without permission is stealing, but it's either cement-blistered feet or a gut tied in an anxious knot. He understands the value of clean(ish) feet, and anything that will keep him from bleeding. Humans are fragile, prone to fatigue, and he can feel every stressor rattle his nervous system. 

When Dean touches him, the first time, sheltered in their room, his skin _jumps._ His heart races, blood pumping in his ears, between his legs, and that scares him. 

“Dean, what does it feel like to have a heart attack?” 

“Cas, honey, you're not having a heart attack.”

Dean does what he can to lessen the fear behind Castiel’s desire. His needs grow, and grow, until he leaps over the edge and into Dean's arms, which are held wide open in anticipation. What is the pay-off but not sweet? Like honey and linden and the shiniest trout leaves. Cas bursts with his greenness. 

The next time is slow still, cautious hands and flushed skin. Cas is a nervous, vibrating thing. Dean whispers in his ear.

"There’s no need for apologies."

He's older than time but knows so little about being human despite his multiple attempts. 

Blood stains. With jeans now ripped his knee weeps, the denim rough under his shaking hands. Dean finds him on the concrete, tears streaming down his face. 

“I just wanted to ride the bike.”

“You did better than I probably would've.” 

Dean kisses his forehead after wrapping the knee with more gauze than is absolutely necessary. Then he leans to kiss over the bandage, closing his eyes just like Mary used to. 

“Kissing it makes it feel better faster.” 

Castiel doesn't question it, because against all fundamental knowledge of physiology, he thinks Dean must be right about this too. He feels better now.

Castiel is to be loved with humanity. 

The grocery store is cold like his empty hands, but he did this to himself. Castiel had raised his voice and stomped up the stairs, their indifference to the echoing slap of shoes on metal felt like mockery. Carrying a shopping basket does not ease the heaviness in stomach. He should just go home and tell Dean he didn’t mean it, but the words they haphazardly exchanged in the flurry of strained voices have gone from his mind. The drop of items against plastic is much duller than his frustration against metal. 

The rubber treads of his high tops plunk softly through the entryway and down the stairs when he returns.

Dean waits for Cas to find him in the cave, Cas’s spot on the couch a gaping hole. It doesn’t stay that way for long. Every day is confirmation that Dean truly is made out of love.

“I’m sorry Dean. I don’t even remember what I was so upset about. I shouldn't have yelled.” 

“It’s ok. Shit happens, we get mad and storm out. _And_ we come back.”

The shoes are discarded by the door and he is snuggled against Dean no later than 3 seconds later. There are many ways to embrace someone, but Dean’s soul wrapping around his is by far his favorite mode of connection. Sometimes it’s casual, a habit of saying hello or see you later, and sometimes it’s the only thing that holds him to the ground. 

Castiel is to be loved with humanity. 

Cas creates _things_. Scribbled forms with big eyes and stick hands that he hangs around the bunker, and when he thinks he is alone he smiles at them. There's 2 in the kitchen and Sam doesn't get it, but Jack thinks the drawings are magnificent. Cas keeps a stack of them in the drawer on his side of the bed. The curling papers sit next to a letter from Kelly and a secret Polaroid he took of Dean. He knows it's not really secret, though he wouldn’t let Sam see it even if he asked nicely. This is the drawer where Cas’s special things live, for him to do with whatever he pleases.

"With or without your powers, you mean the fuckin world to me." 

"Everything feels different, Dean."

"You're right. But that don't mean it has to be ‘bad different’."

Doing every chore, being the last one to finish research for the night, and volunteering for every food run does not make somebody worth more than somebody else. Castiel has to hold onto that one - Dean’s new rule that states not a single one of them has to prove their worth in tasks or knowledge. _That’s just not how humans are supposed to work._

It seems like something the old Cas might say about humans. He knows by now that the important things are easier said than done. But this is something Dean is also right about. So on a rainy Saturday he leans into it. He watches Dean cook, and asks for him to tell stories. He wears Dean’s old grey sweatpants with the paint spots on them from when they touched up their room a few months back. He eats ice cream on the couch and dances his fingers up Dean’s thigh just to watch him smirk and blush. He watches the movie and doesn’t make any excuse to get up or find some way to be “useful”. 

Castiel is to be loved with humanity.

Castiel loves little kisses. He likes to pepper them across Dean's freckles and especially down his neck. Dean lets him, until he can't stand it anymore and mercilessly flips them so he can pin Cas's arms and reciprocate the worship. This makes Cas laugh, every time. 

He can't believe that Dean loves him. He tries to wrap his head around how humans get so twisted and mangled by life and still they are vessels for such enormous, breathtaking light.

"You turned my life upside down."

"Love can get pretty crazy, huh?"

A smile can't really break your face, that's just a saying, too. But after long days cradled by sun-warmed leather and the love of his life by his side, Castiel has nothing to complain about. Not the ache in his jaw or the sweat dripping down his neck, and certainly not Dean's hand waffled with his on the seat between them. 

Reassembling Dean's soul, shielding him through ascension from the cacophony of hell, rising to the womb, planting his body in the black soil of deep earth, and leaving him there to sprout again? That was Castiel's very first taste. Love, compassion, awe, and then heartbreak, because he knew Dean wouldn't remember. But he had _tasted_ it. Blood and iron. 

Being human makes sense less than half of the time, but he is not confused anymore. Not about Dean and not about life. Though he was not birthed the way all other humans are, he certainly was born kicking and screaming, touched by the womb of creation and at his side, the righteous man. 

"Two beers please, for me and my partner."

There are rituals, some he follows and some he does not, but this is one that has protectiveness and play running through his veins. The tables are sticky and the music isn't to his liking but he couldn't care less. He wears the shoes, the ones that were lifted, now worn and scuffed from the years of use. Dean looks at him over their drinks like he's never seen darkness before. 

Some things just happen, without logical reason or viable possibility. Like falling out of a pair of wings and into a pair of boxers he never returned. It's not stealing if the person who they belong to won't accept them back. 

  
And he _is_ loved.


End file.
